


The Would Be King

by spikedaft



Category: Would You Rather (2012)
Genre: F/M, Films, Gen, Gore, Horror, M/M, Robin Lord Taylor - Freeform, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Violence, Would You Rather, jeffrey combs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3732679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikedaft/pseuds/spikedaft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about the Lambrick family. When Julian Lambrick finally cracks, his father sees an opportunity for another game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I told him he was a fucking idiot."

Once, not too long after his wife died, Shepard Lambrick sent his only son Julian to see a psychologist. He wasn’t terribly concerned about the boy’s mental health, but rather hoped that a few sessions with a doctor might teach his son how to control his increasingly…impulsive behavior. Of course, it was not to be. Julian returned not half an hour after the appointment’s start time and flopped into an ornate armchair with a huff, lower lip slightly pooched out in the characteristic sulk he had come to adapt whenever he had to do something that he didn’t want to do. Shep lowered the business journal he had been perusing and peered at his son.

“You’re back soon. How was it?”

“Stupid. I left ten minutes in.”

Shepard raised a brow. “Well, did you even _tell_ him anything?”

“I told him he was a fucking idiot.”

“Julian…”

“Well he _is_.”

And that was that.

Shepard was not one to argue with the boy. He lectured him, of course, because he was very good at lecturing and enjoyed hearing himself orate. For his part Julian would sulk and roll his eyes and mutter noncommittal things to appease his father, ever the petulant teenager (even though his 24th birthday was staring him in the face, only a few months away). His father was an intimidating figure, both when doing business and when partaking in pleasure; scathingly witty, intelligent, and clever. Everything he did had a specific purpose. He rarely made mistakes. Yet when Julian disagreed with him and pushed back against his father’s wishes, Shepard invariably found himself backing down. 

There was something about the boy that touched a feeling that was deeper than Shep’s frequent bouts of exasperation and frustration. He refused to admit to himself that the feeling might have a name. It was this feeling that seared him and shut him up when that particular look came over his son’s face; when his pale eyes grew darker; a storm at sea. 

As soon as the boy entered his teens, Shepard had altogether ceased to trust him. Julian was obviously, for lack of a better word, disturbed. It was laughable, in a way, that the elder Lambrick thought anyone to be disturbed, given the terrible things he liked to do for pleasure. And Julian truly was his father’s boy, something that bode ill for all involved with the Lambrick family. At first, Shepard had delighted in the similarities they shared when it came to extracurricular activities; he had feared for a time that Julian might inherit his mother’s decidedly less violent nature and be uninterested in his father’s party games. But those fears were soon assuaged, and Shepard began to think that surely this boy would, in turn, prove to be a fitting heir to the Lambrick family’s beloved games of casual torture. Perhaps he might even find a way to make them even grander. 

Something along the way, though, had gone wrong. Wrong even for a man like Julian’s father. 

At first, the changes were subtle, and could be easily dismissed as bouts of typical teenage angst. Julian was moody, his countenance reliably stormy. He had inherited his mother’s beauty, her blonde hair, her light eyes, her willowy frame. But these lovely features had become occluded by what was becoming a typical, angry sulk. Many spoiled children had similar affectations, of course, but Julian’s was darker, almost predatory. He became a poacher of the staff’s good moods: if he saw one of them smiling or laughing he would fix them with a glare that could darken even the brightest of dispositions, and should he catch any of them humming or whistling he would quickly snap at them to cease. He would sit with his father during the evening news and chuckle at the violent stories, and Shep noticed that it was while Julian was witnessing violence that his eyes would shine with genuine mirth. No other time. 

All of this Shepard could handle; he saw quite a bit of himself in his son during the younger years. Less ambitious than Shep himself had been in his youth, but no matter. Perhaps Julian was just a late bloomer.

Then, Mrs. Lambrick died. And the fits began.

They were violent, often bloody, and would terrify the staff, who before had only grumbled at his moods and whispered about bad breeding. Even the Lambrick’s butler and head of staff Bevans, who had been with the family from the start, grew loathe to interact with his employer’s son on one of his “bad days”. Shepard had once presented Julian with a lovely (and valuable, of course) set of antique Damascus throwing daggers that he had inherited from his father, who had acquired them from an antiques dealer in Japan in the 1930’s. At first, Julian had treated them reverently, often taking them out to polish them and admire them in bright light. Now, however, he had developed a penchant for hurling them at the walls when he was feeling angry. Once he had sent one straight into the middle of the huge flat screen TV that hung on his wall.

Sometimes, during his fits, he liked to hurl them at people.

Finally, the family physician prescribed a course of antipsychotics and mood stabilizers and benzos that “ought to knock the damn kid on his skinny ass”, as he had muttered to Bevans upon departure. Bevans had only smiled. 

Sometimes Julian took the medication agreeably enough, and the household would enjoy several days of peace and quiet while the young man slouched in his room, passive and compliant as a doll, staring glassy-eyed at the newly replaced TV, which constantly broadcasted violent movies and cartoons, and drinking himself further into a stupor. 

And then there were the times he didn’t take it.

After a few weeks of compliance, he would finally be trusted to administer his own medication. Of course, he did no such thing, but rather flushed the pills down the toilet and replaced them with liquor. He was clever in his own way, especially when he was feeling mean. After a few days of this deception his impulsive tendencies would return. He was a very good actor; he would sit in the drawing room or the dining room, slumped and passive, even smiling occasionally when spoken to, until a staff member felt safe enough to get within range. 

The first time he did it, the victim was a young maid who had only worked there for a few weeks. He had flirted with her a bit, charmed her, told her she was lovely, and then stabbed the long tines of a salad fork deep into the meat of her breast. He had laughed himself to tears as she screamed, and was in hysterics by the time she passed out.

This became Julian’s own little party game until finally the staff became too wary to fall for it any longer and avoided him completely. The only exception was Bevans, who was a large man and quite a bit touched in the head himself. He didn’t fear Julian the way the rest of the help did. He had watched the boy grow up, and had learned to understand him in a way, sometimes even predict him. The elder Lambrick respected Bevans, heeded his suggestions, and even trusted him. He did not have to worry about being fired for mistreating Julian, and so, when he was suspicious that the young man was again neglecting his medication and in the beginnings of a fit, would enter Julian’s room, shut the door behind him, and grab the damn kid, physically forcing the pills down his throat and often getting bitten in the process while his employer sat oblivious downstairs. The work of holding Julian down and keeping him from throwing up until the pills began to take effect soon grew tiresome for the older man, and so had met privately with the family’s physician and acquired several vials of thorazine and a plethora of syringes. 

At first, it had not gone particularly well. Bevans had miscalculated the dose and ended up with too little, and when he finally got the needle into Julian’s hip the little shit struggled so violently that it snapped off. 

The second time was easier, and by the fourth time Bevans was a pro.

 

Bevans, as long as he had known Julian, had never felt much fondness for him, and therefore felt no pity when things got violent. He was happy enough to drug the boy, and even more so to lie about it to his father. Shep, in his opinion, was delusional regarding his son. Lambrick held out false hope that his son would inherit the same acumen for business and the same elegance for subtle tortures as he and his father before him. It was impossible for him to admit that his son was far too damaged to achieve such a higher purpose. He was damaged goods; a lost cause. 

But yet, Julian was the only fragment of Shepard’s beloved wife that he had left; his son, his only child. Despite his fragile state of mental health, despite the dawning notion that he might actually fear his son, Shepard truly believed that Julian was destined for greatness, an heir not only to the Lambrick fortune, but an heir to the suffering and importance it beget.

The mission, for now, was to take everything one day at a time. It would prove to be much harder than it sounded.


	2. Ashes to Ashes

It was not long after Julian’s …behavioral revelations…that Shepard decided to hold another “dinner party”.

The elder Lambrick had busied himself more than usual in the past few weeks (perhaps to distance himself from his unstable offspring, as many of the staff surmised), collecting information and meeting with individuals who had heard of the Lambrick’s outwardly charitable nature and were eager at their own chances for good fortune. There certainly was no shortage of candidates, many of whom seemed delightfully competitive and unscrupulous by nature even during the initial interviews, which Shepard liked to keep brief unless a certain individual caught his genuine interest and he sought to know more.

Violet McLaney was one such individual.

Shep had learned of the young woman through a story in the local Times: the sole survivor of arson, which had taken her entire tenement building—and subsequently her mother, three cats, and husband to be—down to the first floor in a smoldering ruin. The girl had been an aspiring artist, and was just getting on her feet in the art world, when her family and all her paintings were razed to the ground. The grainy photo her of standing amidst the smoking rubble had stricken Shepard with pleasure and intrigue; she faced the camera but was not looking at it, eyes dark and unreadable despite the vulnerability of her stature, the tattered remains of what appeared to be a nightgown peeking out from the grey blanket draped around her shoulders. Shepard, rather than feel pity as he studied her face, instead saw potential there. He intended to exploit it, if he could get the girl to agree to his offer.

He wasn’t nervous about it. They all agreed, in the end. 

The others required very little research. They had heard though underground means of such a game, lowlifes all and all the more expendable. Each one, primarily men, believed themselves superior to the other contestants; many having already accepted an inevitable victory. Their reasons were typical: success in business through monetary gains, furthering of a barely established black market enterprise, even poor shmucks who sought to pay off their considerate debts and paying off their parent’s mortgages as well as their own. One fellow, it seemed, sought only to acquire the proper money to send his infant son to college. Surely a weak link, that one, but no matter. What mattered was the fun Shepard was about to have. He hoped Julian might glean the same.

 

The dinner party was held on quite a frigid night, with frost crisping the manicured lawns and crunching underfoot, while bruised-looking clouds hung heavy and pregnant in the darkening sky. The drivers had brought each guest precisely on time and ushered them into the warm, inviting halls of the Lambrick mansion. They mingled, as usual, in the parlor, sharing drinks and speculations about the other guests, some even finding friendly alliances in the motley company of strangers that had been thrown together. This was the exact reason that Shep made libations plentiful in those first meetings. It eased the conversation, made people more at ease with the strangers they had never before met in their lives. It took their minds momentarily of what was to be expected of them in the coming hour.

As they were all seated, these misfits and beggars and thieves, talk was lighthearted. When Shep arrived, Julian in tow, he introduced Bevans and the boy, who despite himself gave a friendly smile and hello and took his place at the opposite head of the table with a smirk and a glass of Everclear (supposedly ‘water’) beside his hand. He was better dressed than on previous occasions, sporting a pinstripe blazer and trousers with an open-collar white dress shirt beneath, baring just a bit of smooth, pale chest. His wrist sparkled with a rare Rolex and the air he carried about him was dapper and friendly enough. His honeyed locks shone alluringly and were a sharp contrast to his father’s dark head.

The games began easily enough, beginning the small psychological games that no one had the sense to realize would become something far worse. The first course of the meal, from which the Lambrick’s themselves refrained, were the onion-braised brains of Rheesus monkeys that fit almost prettily on tea platters. Of course, young Violet was the least willing to even taste a bit, even though Shepard extolled the virtues of the delicacy in refined places like France and China. But money spoke, as it always did, and she ended up with a mouthful and surprisingly little disgust. Surely, the guests thought, it couldn’t get much more intense than this.

Bevans had been eagerly waiting in the wings to showcase his homemade electroshock machine, and while Julian was bored of the same tactics, he seemed to be the only one of the perpetrators that felt as much. He even felt himself chuckling from time to time, and left his food untouched, having better things in mind in the near future.

Soon he and Violet began exchanging glances, little smiles. He would catch her looking and duck his head prettily, as he had practiced so many times before. After her bout of shocking, Violet, visibly upset (or so she seemed), begged to be allowed to visit the restroom. At first Shep had disagreed, but with a subtle nudging from his son, eventually relented. Violet left the table with one last lingering glass at Julian, as though bidding him to follow.

After the right amount of time had passed, Julian did just that, leaving quietly and gracefully and as innocuous as could be. His absence was hardly noticed as the more intense round of games began.

She was in the bathroom just off the foyer, tucked away behind the grand double staircase that cascaded to the upper floors of the expansive Lambrick residence. Julian approached the door, his chest tight, to see that it was cracked open just a bit. Violet was washing up and humming a bit to herself, obviously unperturbed with the situation she was in. Julian slid a slender hand through the crack in the doorway and drummed long fingers on the wood. He was rewarded with a coy chuckle. 

“Do I have a visitor?” she asked. 

“Perhaps,” he responded, trying to keep the predation out of his tone. “Though truly I thought you might have gotten lost.”

“Do I look lost?” 

He grinned against the wood. “I guess not…”

“Perhaps I could have guessed—hoped—that a certain someone might’ve followed me here.”

“Your eye contact spoke volumes. I’m more perceptive than my father.”

“Then come on in here, pretty baby. Give mama a good look at you.”

Julian thought to retort; she was his age at most and in no position to call herself “mama”. Still, it stirred something in him, something that had not come awake in quite a while. He did enjoy a bit of submission in the beginning. He swung open the heavy door and slunk inside, closing it behind him. He knew what was coming, even if she didn’t. Better let her think that the ball was firmly in her court for now.

She beheld him with the studiousness and appreciation of a fine arts dealer looking over an incredibly valuable piece. But this was a piece she could touch, and she certainly meant to make the best of it. Immediately she approached him and cupped her hand round his chin, tilting his face this way and that, gazing deeply into the glacial eyes that were beginning to darken with…something. He hoped it was what she thought it was. Otherwise, he might be in a lot of trouble.

“You know,” she said, one hand still gripping his chin and the other running down the smooth exposed angle of his chest, “I have no interest in this money. Sure, I could kill ‘em all. I could outlast them all. But money is not the prize I’m looking for. I know this game. I’ve heard of it. That’s not what I’m after, young Mister Lambrick.”

She stood on her manicured toes to reach his face, and boldly brushed her lips against his. “Mmmm,” she exhaled. “Better than money. Softer than silk. Say something to me, Julian…”

“You’re beautif-“ he managed to get out until her lips engulfed his, one hand on the side of his face, the other working lower and lower until his breath came quick in his lungs and his desire was beginning to be painful. She moaned into his mouth as his own slender hand found its way up her skirt, the other kneading a pebbled breast. Violet was glad that she had neglected underclothes that day, and as his long, elegant fingers found that secret place inside her that invariably made her cry out, she nearly screamed her lungs out into his mouth and bucked against his hand. God, he was skilled. Before long she was wailing against his neck, begging him to prop her up on the bathroom counter and give her what she truly ached for the minute she had set eyes on him.

“Hurry up, don’t make me wait,” she hissed urgently, and at that, though unnoticed by her, Julian’s eyes grew dark. The stormy kind of dark. He didn’t like to be ordered around, by this vapid waif no less, but he was past the point of turning back. He obliged by throwing her onto the countertop so hard that the mirror behind her splintered, leaving cuts in her now naked torso, and forced her legs apart as far as they could go, all traces of tenderness gone. Violet was still into it, however, and begged him to fuck her until she could no longer see straight.

Julian happily obliged. However, the deeper he thrust, the darker his eyes became, until the pale line of her neck came into his view and awakened an even deeper, more primal sense. Just as she was about to reach her edge, he bared his white teeth and sunk them deep into the column of her throat. Blood spurted from around his lips and the taste of it along with the salt and perfume on her skin sent him into the best climax he had ever had. Still rocking her, he bit her again, and again. Hard, deep, to the bone. She attempted to scream, but he covered her bloody mouth with his own, drinking deep, and produced one of the Damascus daggers from an inner breast pocket and held it to her sternum, pressing hard enough to puncture in a significant length. She tried to struggle, but he twisted the blade; dragged it upward. He pulled back to behold her, panting, bleeding, terrified, and betrayed, and drove the dagger in to the hilt at the soft base of her throat, twisting it about until she began to gurgle and choke and he was sure that she was on the inevitable brink of death. Then, languidly, he started to peel of pieces of the skin on her face, sticking them to the spiderwebbed mirror like grisly post-it-notes. Perhaps he ate some. He couldn’t be sure. She died in his arms with a full-body shudder that made him hard again.

Soon Julian became aware that it was about time to return to the festivities, and he happily left the mess in the bathroom and took his seat back at the head of the table. His face, hands, shirtfront, and trousers were soaked with dark red gore and gobbets of flesh, but he sat regally and innocuous, as though the detritus covering him did not exist at all. The other contestants gaped with abject horror and he merely smiled at them; a happy, child’s smile.

“May I understand that Miss Violet has decided to forego the rest of the night’s festivities?” his father questioned mildly.

“It appears so, Father,” said Julian. His normally white teeth were streaked with crimson, and he swiped his tongue along his lower lip. “In fact, perhaps we could use a cleanup in the foyer bathroom.” The innocuous look in his eyes was back, but only served to make his countenance more terrifying as he leaned languidly back in his seat to enjoy the remainder of the festivities. He felt no urge to cleanse himself of the stiffening human matter that coated his skin and elegant clothing.

Shepard let a dark smile cross his lips. “I’m afraid that my young son here is quite swayed by the temptations of his baser instincts. And how did she taste, my son?”

Julian shrugged as he dragged his tongue along bloody fingers, as though savoring the juices of a roast. “Good. Filthy. Like the streets.” He laughed as though he had no care in the world.

Shep guffawed. “Be careful of this one, friends,” he said cheerily to his horrified guests. “He’s of good breeding, but still a bit in the feral phase.”

“Hey, I have an idea. Gimme her eyes, Dad,” Julian chirped. 

“And where will you keep them?”

“In a jar,” Julian said casually. “On my TV stand. They’re pretty. Pretty like Mom’s eyes.”

“They’ll go cloudy,” Shep warned.

“Then I’ll find another use for ‘em.”

“I apologize for my son,” said Shep, though he sounded not a bit repentant. “He has been rather…impulsive… since his mother passed.” As though that explained and validated everything, he returned to the matter at hand.

From his place in the corner, Bevans grimaced. He was not the only one in the room to do so.


	3. A Mysterious Request

_NOTE: short chapter. But there’s terrible things to come in the next.  
-S.D._

 

Shepard attempted to confront his son not long after the incident. They were lounging around the drawing room in typical Sunday morning fashion, Shepard sitting with elegant posture in front of a copy of Business Insider Today. “Did you know,” he said, “that missionaries are planning to build housing in Botswana?” He snorted. “How ridiculous. A waste of funds, don’t you think?”

Julian didn’t respond, his noise-cancelling headphones blasting so loudly that Shep could almost make out the lyrics of the screaming punk rock song that was playing. His son sat far less regally than his father, slumped with one leg hanging over the ornate wooden armrest of the antique chair, a long arm slung over the back. He was studiously engrossed in his smartphone.

“Julian. I’m speaking to you.”

No response or indication that his son had heard him at all. Shep ground his teeth. “JULIAN WILLIAM LAMBRICK!”

This time the boy heard him. He pulled the headphones off with a huff of irritation. “Yes, WHAT?! I’m listening, okay? You don’t need to _shout_.”

“Then what was I saying to you?”

Julian glanced at the magazine his father held. “Business stuff…”

“That’s a bluff.”

Julian rolled his eyes in disgust. “Dad, all this fucking business talk, day in, day out… I tune it out, okay? That’s all you ever talk about.”

“This ‘business talk’ is your future, boy.”

The younger Lambrick snorted and got up, tossing the headphones into the chair and tucking his phone into a pocket. Conversation over. At least he hadn’t thrown anything.

Shepard watched him go, eyes troubled. He knew better than to pursue him; nothing but a tantrum, or even violence, would come of it. But he had grown tired of the bad behavior, and of the way his son utterly disrupted everything in his beloved household.

Of course, Julian had never struck his father; never tried to harm him in any way. He liked to take his anger out on the furniture, walls, and expensive appliances instead, but his most delight came from tormenting the staff. While Shep found it to be an entertaining show for a while, he was starting to have trouble holding onto the help. People would quit left and right, especially the younger females. He would have been a little proud of his son’s penchant for chaos if not for the fact that it was dipping into his pockets as new staff negotiated higher salaries and the regulars followed suit.

 

They crossed paths at the dinner table one night, having not seen one another for nearly two days. Though Julian seemed agreeable enough to be present, he was, as always, uninterested in the spread before him and instead drummed his fingers on the table and poured glass after glass of top-shelf scotch.

“You need to eat something sometime,” his father remarked. “You’re skinnier than you’ve ever been in your life.” His son shrugged and took another drink. Shepard left that particular lecture for another time. He had other things to discuss.

The elder Lambrick instead tucked into his squab, and around a mouthful of succulent meat, said, “I’m thinking about having another party, Julian.”

Julian feigned interest. “ _Another_ dinner party? Honestly, Dad, I was thinking you’d be running out of ideas by now.” He huffed and turned the page of the magazine he had been perusing. Shepard was grateful that the publication had been the New York Times, instead of an abomination like Mad Magazine or Maxim or some such drivel.

“Well, it’s different. This party has a catch,” said the elder Lambrick. His voice had grown uncharacteristically steely.

“Oh, c’mon now… What the hell kind of catch is it this time?”

“Well…” Shep swallowed and took a sip of wine. “It’s a little difficult to say this, from a father to his only offspring, but the catch is…well, _you_. Your active involvement. ” The iron in Shep’s voice invited no protest, even from Julian, who had lowered both the magazine and the glass of scotch to stare at him, confused.

“My special arrangement of guests,” Shepard continued, “are interested in the company of younger men, if you will. Don’t worry, there will be others in your age range. It will be a nice celebration of youth. But, Julian…the way you’ve been misbehaving lately leads you to be the likeliest candidate to be the star feature of this particular get together. How they do admire your beauty. My business partners remark upon it all the time, which gave me the idea. Never forget that your looks were your mother’s greatest gift to you. That evening, you will use them. And perhaps learn some discipline while you’re at it.”

“…Um. Will there be chicks?”

“Perhaps.”

Julian stared in bewilderment, and picked up his glass again with increasingly trembling fingers. After downing the entire glass and still unable to find a response, he decided to blow his father off as though he were an annoying housefly buzzing in the window. Empty threats, surely. Never before had he been mistreated by the elder Lambrick, and expected the same consistency that he had always fallen back on. Mournful, piteous maids; even the occasional stroke of Bevan’s fingers down his back in a clumsy attempt to reassure him when he was very upset as a youth. He was quite accustomed to being touched, stroked, held…given the curse of his beautiful mother, he thought little of the gestures as time went on. He eventually surmised, in his childhood, that it was all a display for the staff to gain his father’s favor. He tolerated most of it, but his jaw ground together when most of the help laid their hands on him. Lately, of course, none but Bevans would touch him no matter how long they’d tended to him growing up. And Bevans had long ceased to be gentle. Bevans left bruises.

“Okay Dad, sure,” he laughed, trying to mask the beginnings of nervousness in his voice. “Parade me around; do whatever the hell you like. You making some kinda money off of this?”

“Money, a significant chunk of valuable land, and a share in Techcorp.”

Julian’s father definitely had something to gain, indeed. Perhaps he’d miscalculated the levity of his father’s proposal. The hand holding the scotch began to vibrate violently within his nervous fingers.

“You see, Julian, your behavior has become intolerable, even for me,” said Shepard. “Our friends have begun to disappear, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“If…if you’re talking about that slut at the party, she had it coming. She asked for it. And I don’t recall you objecting.” Julian was beginning to sulk.

“I’m talking about the girl who ‘fell’ down the stairs last month. And the cleaning lady we found in one of the guests bathrooms with no pants and a plastic shower curtain taped around her head. And the fact that one of Margarite’s eyes is missing and she refuses to name the one responsible.”

“It was probably an accident, Dad, c’mon. Cut me a little slack, for fuck’s sake. Accidents happen; these dumb bitches can hardly hold a mop without falling over it and breaking their necks and blaming every dumb fuck who has the means to pay a settlement. Christ’s sake.” He poured another glass, sloshing and clinking the glass in his frustration; by now the sulk had completely clouded over his features and his light eyes had grown stormy. “Everything that happens lately, it’s always blame Julian.”

“Perhaps,” his father said, his voice light and dismissive again, unwilling to inspire his offspring’s wrath at the dinner table. “Listen, boy: I won’t discuss this again. I can see how it upsets you. Forget I mentioned anything.”

Julian snorted into the remainder of the scotch in his glass, downed it expressionlessly and got up to leave, taking the rest of the bottle with him. 

He didn’t leave his room for the next several days except to scream at Bevans for more alcohol. By the third day he had forgotten all about what his father had said.


	4. Dizzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only get worse from here, folks. Enjoy.

One late afternoon, Shepard Lambrick approached the door to his son’s room. Naturally, it was shut, and likely bolted. Receiving no response, he knocked harder; pounded really, using his fist. Immediately the blaring music stopped and a voice sounded from inside the room.

“WHAT?! I told you assholes not to bother me!”

“Julian,” said Shep, “it’s your father. Open up. I need to talk to you.”

There was an exaggerated sigh and presently Shepard heard the latch click. The door opened a pinch and his son’s pale, blue-green eye peered out at him. “Oh. Hey. Listen, I didn’t do anything if you’ve come to yell at me. I’ve been in here all week.” He opened his door further and made a grand, sweeping gesture of his quarters, which were surprisingly tidy. Perhaps he had been taking his medication after all.

Shep pushed past his son and stepped into the room, taking a seat on one of the well-padded chairs that littered the room. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the boy’s huge bed. Julian arched a quizzical brow, but did as he was bidden.

“There’s going to be a party this evening for my business partners.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to go anywhere, okay? I just wanna stay here.”

“You will,” his father assured. “The farthest you have to go is downstairs; make an appearance. And I want you to wear the tux. The _nice_ one. The three-piece.”

“Oh, c’mon; that thing is so damn uncomfor—“

“You _will_ wear it, just for tonight. I want you looking your most splendid. I want Marta to do your hair. You will represent this family with the grace and good looks we are known for.”

Julian’s eyes could not have rolled further back in his head. He didn’t notice Bevans appear in the doorway.  
“You can’t possibly think I’m going to go along with this,” Julian muttered, and then noticed the butler pass a bright green bottle to his father, who held it up temptingly, jiggling it a little.

Julian narrowed his eyes. “Whuzzat?”

Shep smiled like a contented cat. “Absinthe. From Amsterdam. The real stuff. I know how much you love it, and it is a rare thing to acquire, what with the new trade laws.”

Julian’s mouth hung open slightly and his eyes shone greedily. Perfect.

“If,” said Shep, “you agree to do this for me, the whole bottle is yours. You can chase the green fairy for the rest of the goddamn week, I don’t care. You’ll get it after the party is over. Deal?”

“Okay, okay. Fine.” Julian sighed. “Just get out of here and let me get ready.”

Shepard could not resist crossing the room and resting a fond hand on the top of his son’s honey colored head. “That’s my boy.”

Julian scowled but was nonetheless pleased. He loved that bitter crap. He loved bribery even more.

***  
Julian was a bit puzzled as he leaned over the railing of the upstairs hallway, peering down at the guests in the foyer below. There were many older men, dressed as impeccably as their pocketbooks would allow, but there were also a number of boys roughly Julian’s age; some even looked younger. His father was the most dapper Julian had ever seen him, presiding over conversation with the grace, civility, and good humor of a lord. No young women anywhere to be seen; only older broads who clutched their husband’s arms like they clutched their handbags, trying desperately to look elegant and managing only to look put out. A moue of disgust twisted his lips.

Eventually, Shepard’s gaze found itself on his son, and he smiled broadly and swept his hands out in front of him. “Ah! Esteemed guests, my son Julian has made his appearance! Come on down, my boy!”

There was murmuring amongst the crowd as Julian descended the stairs, trying to remain as stoic as possible. He held his head high, aloof, as he had been taught as a boy to do in polite company. He allowed the eyes of strangers to peruse him, examine him, some simply staring with a hunger that made his stomach feel jittery. He reached the bottom of the stairs and regarded his father’s guests with mock friendliness. “Hello, all. Pleased to meet you.”

“Such a polite boy,” murmured one of the gentlemen next to Shepard, who could almost hear Bevans snort from his place in the entryway. He turned toward the butler and waved.

“Bevans, if you please, could you have the servers bring out the buffet?”

The butler disappeared into the hall that lead to the kitchens without a word. Shep gestured to the two long wooden tables glistening with crystal glasses and tumblers, silver buckets of ice and chilled whiskey stones, and a plethora of expensive libations. “Please,” he crowed happily, “indulge! There’s plenty more where that comes from; don’t be shy!”

As the guests busied themselves, the elder Lambrick made his way over to his son, still standing at the base of the staircase, and seized his a little roughly in between the shoulder and neck. Julian recoiled, but Shep pinched a little harder. “Now, son, I need you to do me a favor.” He dug around in his pocket until he produced six large, white pills. “I want you to take these, with some scotch, forthwith.”

Julian gaped. “But...but these aren’t my pills.”

“No matter. They’ll help. Promise.”

“But I’ve been good for weeks,” he protested, trying not to make his voice too loud. “I don’t need them. I’m not even planning on _drinking_.”

“I can have Bevans help you, if you like,” said Shep with mock tenderness, enjoying the shudder that went through his son. His pretty son.

Julian tried one more weak attempt at refusal even as the capsules were shoved into his hand and the grip on his shoulder tightened. Shep turned, still holding onto his son, and retrieved a drink off of a small serving table to the right of him. “See? I’ve got your drink already.” The hand on Julian’s shoulder released him to gently entwine his fingers into his son’s hair. His wife’s hair. Within himself, especially after the few drinks that he had already downed, he felt that familiar burn that had haunted him since she had died. He wanted his gentle wife back, even if it was a reincarnation in the form of his son. His mood darkened again. He was going to teach the boy humility. He would have another piece of his wife back. He would force it, if he had to.

Fuck. Forget forcing it if he had to. He was forcing it now.

Julian palmed the huge white pills, as though ready to hurl them somewhere or secret them inside a pocket.

“If you like,” said his father, “I could have Bevans take you upstairs and help you. You may have to fix your suit after.”

That seemed to do it. Julian seized the drink with a glower that would’ve stopped a clock, slopping a bit of it in his anger, and shoved the pills down his throat all at once, swallowing them and chasing them with the liquor. He looked sullenly at his father, who was busy appreciating how much the boy could fit down his throat without retching. Part of him felt repulsed at the thought, but the lively chatter of his guests drowned out the feeling well enough.

“That’s my boy,” he soothed, smoothing the boy’s lapel. “Now, go mingle if you like. If you get tired of it, you can sit in my chair.”

That was an odd offer. No one sat in Shep’s grand armchair that lorded over the rest of the furniture that occupied the social room except Shep. It was one of his overt pretenses. Calf leather, trimmed with genuine bronze sculptures that flanked both sides. 

Julian sighed and made his way into the crowd, if only to find a small corner in which to seclude himself, when he was beset by gentlemen old and young alike. He could rarely answer one question when another one was asked, and then another, and soon they began touching him, laying hands on his suit, his neck, his cheeks, his hair. Holding his elegant hands, marveling that he must be a musician, a pianist probably, (which he most certainly was _not_ ). After a short time of trying to summon his typical anger and disgust, he instead found himself willing and off guard. He glanced around to see other young men being accosted in a similar manner, though none had as much attention on them as he did. He peered around at his devotees with oddly bleary eyes, and could not find even a bit of himself that particularly rejected this attention. 

Shepard watched from an alcove, Bevans alongside him. They were grinning.

***  
Within about forty-five minutes, things had…degraded. Most of the young boys were in some state of undress, very inebriated, and happily enjoying the caresses and attention that the old businessmen showered upon them. The old men themselves were well drunk, and perhaps under different chemical influences given the abandonment of their fancy facades in favor of lust and tasting the forbidden fruits of Shepard Lambrick’s special party.

Drink after drink, probably spiked, the most of them, were thrust upon Julian, who by this time was inebriated enough to drink them without a second thought. His mouth was dry, his heart was pounding, his skin was warm. Hell, _several_ parts of him were warm. He had time to wonder what his father had given him in those hazy days of the party’s start when a man in about his forties, huge like a bodybuilder and in a suit that strained at the biceps and neck, seized him bodily and suctioned his lips into the youngest Lambrick’s. Julian had enough left in him to fight and struggle a bit, but the man crushed him in his bulky arms and squeezed him until Julian could feel his ribs grind together. 

He jerked his head away from the man’s mouth. “Gross! Stop,” he half hissed, half-slurred, and lifted his fingers to the man’s face, trying to gouge him with his nails. He was dimly aware of the cheer than had gone up amongst the crowd and certainly could not place its meaning. His fingernails sought the man’s eyes and found purchase. The man wheeled away, dropping Julian to the floor, and staggered about the room with blood dripping from his face, screaming epithets.

Shepard’s laugh was the loudest of all, seconded only by Bevans’. 

“You see my boy?” he exclaimed. “A fighter through and through. Be careful, gentlemen! One must always use caution when approaching a Lambrick!” He seemed ecstatic in his moment, flushed with libations and pride.

Julian never made it off of the floor. The pills had kicked in fully, and he lay limp, exhausted; doll-like as feet milled around him, hands touched him reverently. He had the presence of thought to wish he had made it to the chair, but it was miles away now. He couldn’t even lift his head.

It didn’t even register when hands began to remove his jacket and dress shirt, expensive cufflinks clattering to the hardwood floor, bowtie yanked apart and off with all the grace of an undertaker’s final preparations. He let it happen, barely aware, as the sounds of many people arguing above him began to assault what little, cottony hearing he had left.

Unmistakeable, he heard his father’s voice above the din, husing everyone. “Gentleman, please, please… I have given to you what I will of him. I would now like to invite our most honorable of guests, James Worthington, heir to the oil company that bears his regal name, to take the boy and do with him as I requested. For the rest of you, the fun with my son has ended, but please continue to enjoy the food and drink, and the many young men who have agreed to be your party favors for the night.”

The feet that had surrounded Julian blessedly retreated, and he lay his head on the floor, closing his eyes, grateful that he had endured the worst of it. He had completely missed the part about James Worthington. He was convinced that someone, Bevans probably, would lift him up and carry him to his warm bed so that he could sleep the oddity of the night away.

It wasn’t Bevans who approached him, though. Kneeling down, he smelled the acrid, minty tang of expensive cologne, and suddenly warm hands were running up his torso, rubbing his chest, up to his tender throat, stroking his neck and hair. He found that he couldn’t speak; could not protest or even ask who this stranger was that was touching him as a lover might. He opened glassy eyes to behold the blurry image of a man who look in his mid fifties, and had the air of a mafia don right down to the golden cufflinks and even more golden necklace that draped across the hairy expanse of his chest that was exposed by his loosened tie.

“Hello, boy,” he said, and his accent was no doubt from Brooklyn. “Come with me now. I’ll carry ya. You’re light enough.” He chuckled and slid warm arms beneath Julian, scooping the boy up with practiced ease and letting his head flop sideways as though he were dead. 

Julian now safely and complacently in his arms, he turned to Bevans, Shepard long gone to mingle and talk about the night’s festivities amongst his guests with the good humor he was known for. Bevans merely smiled and gestured up the stairs. “Third room on your right, Mr. Worthington. Mind that you lock the door.”

“Of course, my good man,” replied Worthington. Julian could feel the rumble of his chest against his cheek. All thoughts of struggle had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and indifference.

Worthington continued up the stairs with his prize. Julian had no idea what the men were talking about, and couldn’t bring himself to care.

***  
Once in Julian’s bedroom, Worthington kicked the door closed and latched it with a free hand. He carefully approached Julian’s bed, but tossed him onto it with the least possible care he could have mustered. He crouched by the side of the bed and watched Julian with glittering eyes. Julian watched back, completely thrown for a loop. What was happening?

Worthington himself began the explanation. “You know, my son,” he murmured, “I am one of your father’s oldest business partners. We started in the black market. I sold things…illegal things, knicked Rolexes, ladies’ diamonds, body parts, you name it. My trade of choice was the trafficking of young boys, young men. Some little girls. I have a specialty in teaching them to behave themselves and not resist. Your father and I got on well. He traded ivory for a time. We are compliments to one another. So when he came to me a couple of months ago, complaining about you; your attitude, your fits, your tendency to victimize those weaker than you, well, I had to agree to his request to try my hand at you. He thought I’d get through to you better than he could. I’m here to try and teach you a little humility; a little respect. And that’s precisely what’s going to happen tonight. I know you’re drugged up, Julian,” he said lowly, and painfully gripped the young man’s narrow chin, “but if you try anything on me I will make you regret the very moment your dead mother squirted you out into the world.”

Julian’s eyes, for perhaps the first time in his life, were wide with abject horror. He tried to struggle, but Worthington swiftly produced a boxcutter from his pocket and swiftly, with just a bit of force, dragged it down the boy’s exposed torso. Julian gasped as he felt warm blood begin to leak down his sides, into the front of his pants. 

“I’m not playing with you, am I, Julian?”

Julian forced words that were hard coming. “N-no..no, sir…”

“Sir. That’s more like it. We’re making progress already.” Worthington leaned forward, swiped thick fingers in the blood with a reverent sigh. He brought the fingers to his lips and sucked them deeply, rolling his eyes back as the taste hit his palate. After a while, he smiled at the boy with all the geniality of Santa Claus. “Can you sit up, boy? I do hope you can.”

Julian obliged, ignoring the sting. Worthington hummed lightly as he observed him, reaching over to hook his thick, bloody fingers into the boy’s waistband, leaving scarlet smears on skin and clothes. 

“So, Julian… Anyone ever tell you that you have a pretty mouth?”

Julian froze.

Worthington laughed. “Of course they have, even if it wasn’t to your face. Do you have any idea what I’d like you to do with that mouth?”

That was enough. Julian whirled about on the bed, heading to exit from the other side despite his drugged floundering. He struggled to get his limbs moving, frustrated with the time he was wasting, until suddenly he found a scream torn from his throat as a blade—probably the boxcutter—seared itself deeply down his back; deeply enough to catch on bones, and opening a gigantic, flayed wound which immediately bled copiously into the well-cared for Egyptian cotton sheets. Despite this he still made it off the bed, a huge flap of muscle swinging from his flank, and made for the table on which a straight shaving razor was resting. Worthington was meeting him halfway and he knew he wouldn’t make it in time, so he reached into a nearby drawer and seized one of his Damascus daggers, tucking it inside the bloody waistband of his boxers. He prayed it would remain there.

As expected, Worthington intercepted him, hovering over him and forcing Julian to his knees. Julian tried not to whimper in pain as his chin was grabbed and the other man went to work unfastening his own trousers. 

“Now, now, boy,” said the older man, petting Julian’s golden hair. _The nerve_ , the youngest Lambrick seethed. _The fucking nerve he has, to stroke me like a mother_. 

Julian was practiced at fellatio. It was his duty young in life to impress upon his father’s business bigshots that he was of delightful use even in his young age. But it had been ages. And this man…he found that he hated this man like no other. He was becoming dizzy with blood loss and the remainder of the pills his father had fed him.

Finally, the inevitable moment came.

“Suck it,” Worthington demanded. Julian scowled despite himself and was cuffed soundly about the head with what felt like a billy club but was probably the man’s hand.

“SUCK IT, SUCK ME OFF,” the mob boss nearly shouted, and Julian relented. “Yes sir, Mr. Worthington.”

“What was that?”

“A…Anything you like, Mr. Worthington. Anything. Please don’t cut me again.”

Worthington smiled broadly. “Atta boy, Jules. You’ve learned manners. Won’t your father be proud. Now, get to work. And don't tell Daddy about this last part or I'll kill ya.”

Julian took the man into his mouth, his tongue velvet and skilled and knowing every part to hit. Worthington found himself moaning loudly despite his pledge of discretion. _God_ , the boy was good. So very good. He seemed to have literally no gag reflex. He pushed forever inward, and was only met with more velvet, caressing him, sucking him, perfect teeth running along his length for emphasis.

He never noticed the tears streaming down Julian’s pale face. If he had, he certainly would not have cared.

“Please, sir”, was all that he truly wanted to hear. And the same went for his father as well.


	5. Aftermath

Worthington spent another hour with the boy, drunk himself and feeling cruel. By this time Julian was slumped on the floor, utterly used, his bare back against the mattress and box spring, which was rapidly turning crimson from the horrible wound in his back. He saw the older man pick something sharp up off of the small table, studying it thoughtfully. 

“Please,” Julian whispered in a broken whisper.

“Hmm?” The elder man turned his gaze from the object to look at the boy, head cocked. “What was that, Julian?”

“Please,” Julian repeated, voice faint and raspy.

“Please what?” the man urged.

“Please don’t…hurt me anymore.”

Worthington smiled and put the weapon back down on the table. “Do you think that perhaps you can behave yourself from now on? Have you learned your lesson? Violent people like you only learn from violence.”

Julian nodded as best he could. “I…I learned, Mr…”

“Worthington,” said the older man, voice friendly enough. “I can’t blame you for forgetting, kiddo. Will you now behave for your father when he asks you to?”

“…Yeah.”

Worthington smiled like the cat who had caught the canary. “Good. And if you go back on your word, your father will call me again.”

The youngest Lambrick suppressed a shudder, which sent a bolt of pain through him. For all intents and purposes, the boy looked wrecked and repentant enough. Worthington thought it a good time to take his leave, and turned toward the bathroom to begin dressing again.

He didn’t hear Julian get up from the floor, nor did he hear him pad across the bedroom, grabbing a serrated carving knife from the small table.

The older man shrieked in surprise and disbelief as he felt a blade plunge deeply into his back, below the back of the neck. He whirled around, free hand out to grab the boy’s wrist, but Julian moved the knife so quickly that the downward sweep of Worthington’s hand was impaled upon the blade. A terrible dance ensued, with him trying to free his bleeding hand and grabbing at Julian with the other. The boy was something different than he had seen all evening; his dull, pleading eyes had grown disturbingly dark in shade and his thin face was a mask of fury. He wobbled on his feet, but managed to dance right along with the mobster until he was able to wrench the blade free from the man’s palm with a squeal of bone and a rip of tendons and, fast as lightning, plunge it into the base of the older man’s throat, twisting the knife for good measure. Worthington fell then, mouth working, and Julian straddled him, grinning maniacally. 

Shepard and Bevans had heard the scream and both raced upstairs, the butler using a spare key to get the lock undone. Making someone scream with such pain wasn’t part of the plan, just subtle humiliation and discomfort until a lesson was learned.

Unfortunately for Julian, he himself had never made a sound during his own abuse.

They burst the door open to a truly horrific sight. The entire room was splattered in red, and there was Julian, topless, fly undone, straddling Mr. Worthington and stabbing him in the chest again and again and again, screaming nonsense words, tears running down his red-streaked cheeks. There was a gaping and horrific wound in his back, the chunk of muscle that had been sheared partially off swaying with every downstroke of the boy’s bloody hands. Blood dripped from his mouth, either from biting Worthington or by personal injury, but when Shepard screamed at his son to stop, Julian turned his head and spit the red liquid as hard as he could, splattering his father’s dress shirt and face, and continued driving the knife into the obviously deceased mobster, this time stabbing deep into the quivering mass of his gut, sending gore and chunks of what looked like white suet flying.

“Bevans!” Shep cried. “Get him, for Christ’s sake!”

The large man bolted across the room with a quickness that belied his size, and as quick as you please had wrapped both thick arms around Julian, effectively pinning his arms to his body. Julian tried to retaliate, but his hands were of no use, and so he dropped the weapon and let himself go limp in the man’s arms, much as he had done as a young boy after a tantrum. 

Shep appproached Bevans. “Have someone call Dr. Calderon immediately. Immediately.” 

It was over. Julian let his head loll on Bevan’s shoulder as Shepard approached him, carefully scrutinizing his face. He gave him a tight smile. “A fighter, like I was.”

“Daddy,” whispered Julian, and closed his eyes.


	6. Your Own Lambrick

Shepard could not bring himself to face his son until the following evening. The staff cared for him on the regular, tending to his wounds, trying to soothe him as best they knew how (which was very little). There was a surprising amount of silence emanating from Julian’s bedroom, which began to ring the alarm bells loudly enough that Shepard eventually found it necessary to visit his son and see what had been keeping him so docile.

He didn’t bother to knock; the door was swung open partway to begin with. Odd. 

His son was lying in his bed, shirtless but swathed in huge, bloodstained bandages. His eyes were blank. There were bruises on his face and neck. His fists twisted in the velour comforter. Shep took a nearby chair and dragged it over to his son’s bedside. Julian watched with the detachment of an animal caught in a trap of which there was no escape. Strangely, though, Shepard saw no betrayal there.

“How are you, boy?”

Julian merely stared at him, eyes moist from either painkillers, booze, or something else that was too painful for the elder Lambrick to consider.

“It wasn’t meant to go as it did,” Shep offered, feeling trite. “I didn’t realize that Worthington had such an appetite for you.” He paused, considering the next question, and finally dove into it. “Did he…did he do other things to you? _Sexual_ things?”

Julian immediately buried his face in the blanket but gave no reply. His pale hand, lying limply against the pillow, resembled his mother’s so much that Shepard could not help himself and took it in his own, smoothing his fingers over the fine bones of his son’s knuckles. The nails were still caked with blood. Julian weakly tried to pull back, but his heart wasn’t in it. He allowed his father to stroke him without a word, as his mother had when he was young.

“No one will hurt you again, Julian. I promise this as your father. This past incident was a grave miscalculation on my part. I’m sorry, Jules.”

There was silence for a while, and then a quiet, broken moan from the bed. 

“Mom…I want Mom…”

Shepard’s heart immediately shattered, and he could no longer keep the moisture from his eyes. Feeling weak and a failure to his late wife, the worst feeling he had ever felt, he could stand it no longer and left his son’s bedside, noisily dragging the chair back to its original place. It was time for a stiff drink. Perhaps several. Alone.

“Daddy, daddy…” Julian moaned again, pale bloody hand reaching out for comfort, but there was no longer anyone there to comfort him.

***  
“Have you been administering the boy’s medications as the doctor has requested?” Shepard asked Bevans after a couple of scotches and a few cigarettes. He was leaning in an ornate armchair and rubbing his temples.

“Of course, sir,” replied Bevans. 

“…And?”

“He hasn’t fought it. Placid as a doll.” He chuckled wryly. “It seems that you did truly teach the boy a lesson.”

One minute Shep was staring incredulously at his butler, and the next he was hurling the glass of scotch at him and screaming at him to get out of his sight for the rest of the day. Bevans hurried away, exasperated and more than a little confused. He instructed his employees to avoid the elder Lambrick until dawn the next day. Not one person protested, even though Littlest Lambrick needed medication. Too bad for now.

Both Lambricks spent the night alone, the younger’s face streaming with tears that he did not even realize were there until the pillow was damp and he rolled over in exasperation and disgust. Shepard, on the other hand, was well aware of his own. The night heralded a dark grey dawn that barely lit the French windows and left the house a collection of morose shadows. This house, the embodied spirit of the Lambrick family. Wealth and opulence and without a shred of joy.

Bevans woke Shepard from a sound, whiskey-induced slumber, shaking him urgently.

“Whaaa…” was the best thing Shep could think of to say.

“I’m sorry sir, terribly sorry, but Julian is trying to get up out of bed. I’m afraid he’s got hold of those knives again, sir.”

“SHIT,” the elder Lambrick cried, leaping out of bed and tossing on a ornate robe. He tore barefoot out of the room and up the stairs, Bevans puffing along behind him.

When he finally got the door open and surveyed the scene, he saw that the Damascus knives were not the only thing his son had been hurling about the room. His bed was stripped bare, sheets and blankets as bloody as his bandages and strewn all over the room. Weapons of all sorts, most of which Shepard knew nothing about, were lodged in the walls, in the furniture, in the new TV. It looked as though Julian had scraped his sharp nails savagely down his face, and beneath his eyes and his cheeks bled freely like the statue of Madonna that so many around the world had come to revere. No one revered Julian, however. The anxious staff watched horrified from around the corners of the doorway, hesitant and more than unwilling to help, as Bevans clutched his meaty hands to his temples and pled silently that no more could come of this, not today.

The elder Lambrick, showing a nerve he was unaccustomed to adopting, carefully made his way to the bare mattress that his son was leaning on, obviously in pain but too angry to do anything about it. He showed no sign of knowing that his father-- much less the others-- were there. Strangled snarls of fury and frustration tore themselves from a raspy throat, and he would intermittently seize his golden head by the temples and rock back and forth, keening in a way that chilled the blood. But Shepard continued his slow, careful approach.

Finally, he ventured to speak. 

“Julian…”

A moan answered him and something was thrown in his direction, but missed its mark by a meter at least. Julian returned to his mindless rocking.

Shep continued to step closer, until, with his heart in his throat, he sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, prepared for the worst. “Julian, it’s me. It’s...it’s Dad. It’s just me.”

Immediately the keening and rocking stopped, and Julian slowly turned his head to peer at his father. He stared at him through a bloody, rent face. “ _You_ ,” he hissed. “ _You_ did this to me.”

“Julian, no,” Shep said, spreading his hands in placation. “I simply wanted you to learn constraint, so you could rule this great fortune, this great empire, along with me. I… I misjudged. I picked the wrong man. What you did to him was right. It was right, Jules.”

Julian was caught off guard by the sound of his father’s pet name. His eyes roved wildly about the room, and then settled on his father again. “You’re sorry?”

“I’m so dreadfully sorry, pet.”

At that, Julian visibily sagged, and his father took him carefully into his arm, rocking him like he did when the boy was tiny. He felt Julian’s head rest onto his shoulder and had to stifle a sigh of contentment.  
“You’re your own Lambrick now.”

No one could see the grin that crossed Julian’s features after that.


	7. Escape Attempt

_Author’s note: TRIGGERS TRIGGERS TRIGGERS.  
-SD_

 

Even after Julian had healed enough to be back to his former self, he rarely spoke to his father. He stayed in his room mostly, sometimes wandering the grounds with a pensiveness that Shepard had never before witnessed. The pout was gone, replaced by a sincere sense of melancholy and quite a bit of anger, which manifested in a scowl that cowed even Bevans, who would find any excuse to be absent of the young man’s presence.

The elder Lambrick dared not approach his son and instead invested himself in more and more of the scotch that he had begun to order in bulk. He found himself lost in thought more than he ever had been before, during his successful career and delight in lavish parties. Lost in memories, lost in guilt. That terrible guilt, which he had never felt before the passing of his wife. Powerful and wealthy as he was, he was beginning to feel like nothing. A waste of life; a failure.

While his father lamented downstairs, locked in his study, Julian one day found himself climbing up the stairs to his room, reaching the landing and entering the door to his room, locking it (even though, despite his mental instability, he could not figure out why there was still a lock on it, after all sort of dickens that he had pulled in there). He was grateful for it, though. He had plans this afternoon.

Shepard didn’t hear the door to his son’s room shut and latch; he was far too deep in his study to hear it. He studied his fourth glass of scotch, misty-eyed as he thought of his late wife and how it had been solely his fault that she had passed so soon. No, he couldn’t bear to think about it deeper than just an alighting on the fringes of his memory. That piercing, but passing feeling of guilt and horror.

Horror, for a man like Shepard Lambrick, was something akin to snow in the desert in midsummer. He had never even truly felt it for his son when his son had turned to outright destruction and bloodlust, lacking the class and elegance his father had hoped would be instilled in the boy.

It was a lost cause, he was beginning to realize. The boy was a lost cause. No trace of his mother but his beauty; but the soul underneath was poisonous, even for a sadist like Shepard. Poisonous, and irreparably damaged.

He sighed into his drink, and swigged it with the most depression he had ever felt in his life.

 _My boy_ , he thought. _My only boy. My only gift from her_.

And what a terrible gift it was turning out to be.

***

Julian pushed the door closed until it latched and the lock clicked into place. He pressed his cheek against the doorframe and smiled. 

He went to his private liquor cabinet first, reverently turning the key and retrieving a bottle of Bacardi 151, the bottle of absinth his father had persuaded him with, and a large paper envelope that contained a significant amount of angel dust.

“Gonna get wet,” he chuckled to himself, and for the first time that day wondered if he was going to kill himself, whether he meant to or not.

No matter, really. What happened would happen. He was out to teach a lesson, alive or no. He would make the bastard suffer, in life or death, for what was done to him.

He dumped his payload onto the newly-made bed and flopped down on it, careless of the glass bottles clinking with his movement. Grabbing the stereo remote, he tuned in to his favorite heavy metal station and let Marilyn Manson’s "The Beautiful People" wash over him. He identified with this song more than he would ever had admitted, and soon found himself swigging the 151 as though it were lemonade, nodding along to the lyrics. He grew bored of the burning, though, and started in on the absinthe. He needed no sugar cube to pour it over; the bitter taste was just fine for him. He always had a bitter taste in his mouth nowadays, anyway. He drank half the bottle, chasing not the green fairy but the dogged whispering of his thoughts, his baser instincts, the ones that wanted to destroy him. 

He nearly passed out, but his roving eyes settled on the envelope on his nightstand and a new purpose, and new vigor, overcame him. He grabbed it, stuffed it into the weed pipe he kept on the nightstand, and inhaled as deeply as his lungs would allow. Once, twice, three times.

It took hold immediately, filling him with a crazed vigor.

“She says she talk to angels,” he chortled nonsensically. He felt the pipe slipping out of his grasp and quickly replaced it to its original home on the nightstand. 

It was time, now. Time for the answer to all his wants and needs and longings.

He could barely walk, which ruled out the use of the Damascus daggers. Instead he reached beneath his mattress and was relieved to find a sharp bite of metal there. The razor blade that his dad had once used to dispatch a particularly troublesome business partner who didn’t know when enough was enough and to quit badgering the elder Lambrick. Julian had knicked it without a moment’s hesitation or suspicion. As he pulled it out from between the mattress, he murmured to himself.

“When all of your wishes are granted, all of your dreams will be destroyed….”

The angel dust was making him slump, almost falling off the side of the mattress, and with great effort he righted himself back into an upright position, palming the blade and smiling when he felt the deep sting of it cutting his palm. Solid. Real. The only thing that had seemed real in weeks. He loosened his grip but still held it reverently.

Oh, but this was going to be good.

The speedball he kept in a drawer should do the trick of picking him up enough to do the deed. He fished out one of the syringes Bevans had used on him from the garbage can and made his bleary way to his dresser drawer; third one down, under his socks. It was right where he had left it, and he found himself grinning and he loaded up the syringe and tapped as many bubbles out as he could. He stalked back to his bed, leaned half-sitting against the plethora of pillows, and fished his belt out from the waistband of his pants. He wrapped it around his right arm, as tightly has he could manage, and was soon rewarded with a bulging vein in his forearm. He fished the needle in, probing until blood filled the chamber, mixing with the drug, and depressed the plunger with a sigh that could have been interpreted as purely sexual.

As he waited to perk up he felt it almost immediately, and was pleased. Just the right amount of cocktail for his thin body. Just the right amount. He was ready now.

He turned the stereo from loud to ear-blasting, and took the razor blade, regal with its ornate bone handle, and pressed it against the skin of his arm. He steeled himself and dragged it heavily up the length of his forearm, surprisingly excited by the sensation of the pain and of the warm, pulsing blood that flowed down his and onto his impeccable white sheets. He laughed out loud, still high as fuck, and then thought to experiment in other places. Lifting his shirt to expose an emaciated stomach, he did the same with the razor. It hurt more, but he enjoyed it nonetheless, and continued in a sort of trance until the expanse of his belly and chest were so covered in lacerations that there was not even a half inch of room to add any further.

_Prick your finger it is done; The moon has now eclipsed the sun  
"The angel has spread his wings; The time has come for bitter things"_

 

Beholding the damage, the bloodshed, he began to laugh so loudly; more screaming than actual mirth, such that all of the house could hear him, and Shepard, deep in drink as he was, heard the odd sound and raced wobbly up the stairs to his son’s room, kicking the door until he thought his leg would break. Finally the lock gave way and he stumbled inside.

The sight of the blood-soaked bed sheets and the equally bloody figure of his shirtless son was disturbing enough, but it was the way that Julian was laughing, holding his slick, bloody sides, that chilled him beyond anything he could have ever imagined.

Julian turned to face his father after hearing his dismayed gasp and the smack of Shep’s hands clapping over his mouth, eyes wide in terror.

“Oh, hi, Daddy,” said Julian calmly. “I made you a present. You like presents, don’t you? It’s your favorite color and everything.” 

He held out his streaming wrists, bared his mutilated torso. The belt loop was still around his arm and the syringe remained in his skin.

“This is what you wanted after Mama died. So, consider it an early birthday gift. Enjoy, you hateful, fuckmothering bastard.”

Despite his horror, despite the slight niggling urge to help his only son, Shep found himself backing out of the doorway on staggering feet. He thought of calling Bevans, but would he help after all that had transpired? The boy had become a liability.

Julian laughed him all the way out the door, down the stairs, and into his study, where he bolted the door with a keening cry, picked up the phone and punched the autodial that displayed Dr. Calderon’s emergency number, mumbled something into the handset, and then could hear no more but the shrieking of his own panic.


	8. Sympathy For the Devil

Bevans first heard about the horror that had taken place in Julian’s room buy the broken sobbing of his master, deep within his study but keening so loud that he could be heard above all the ruckus of the house. Extremely alarmed, he burst the door open, though the usually policy was to knock first, and found Shepard slumped on the floor, obviously severely intoxicated, and weeping out words that Bevans had trouble making out.

“Dead…I did…my fault…no gift at all…a demon…he’d be her demon…”

“Sir?” inquired Bevans gently. At first he got no response, but then his employer muttered, “Shep.”

“I…I’m sorry?”

“Call me Shep, Bevans. I’m in no state of mind to acknowledge formality.”

“I understand,” Bevans said automatically, but his face twisted in confusion and concern. “Sir…Shep…What happened?”

“My son,” Shep wailed, pounding his fists against his forehead. “That...thing...in his room, half-dead…said it was a gift to me…”

“What?!” Bevans bellowed, and swiftly turned to go up the stair to his employer’s son’s bedchamber. What the hell had happened now?

The door to Julian’s chambers was hanging off kilter due to Shepard’s kicking, and it was just a matter of gently shoving in open before Bevans was in the room.

The room itself looked neat enough; no sign of the characteristic fits that Julian would pitch when the mood took him. All was neat and tidy, save for a few open drawers with their contents scattered on the floor, as though Julian had been hunting for something in there in a hurry.

But then, he looked at the bed.

It was Julian sprawled on it, all right, covered loosely with a thin blanket as though to ward off a chill. The radio was on, but the young man appeared oblivious to the loud music.

The blanket he had dragged over his torso was soaked with blood. Hovering over him was the family doctor. Calderon.

Bevans hurried over, and though he had never felt any prior fondness for the boy, he felt something in his chest wrench when he lifted the blanket away. The boy had carved the ever loving hell out of himself. Deeply. The bone-handled straight razor was on the sheets beside him; Bevans recognized it as belonging to Shep. Julian’s arm was a purple and red mass of pulsing veins and exposed muscle where he had slashed it with the old blade. The other arm still had a syringe sticking out of the vein, dangling precariously. The belt held the bleeding from the puncture mostly at bay. 

“It’s bad,” said Calderon, “but there’s room to work with. He’ll be okay, I think.”

Bevans made sure the boy was breathing if only to satisfy his own worry; Julian was as pale as death and might well have looked like any junkie dead in an alley in the seedier part of town. But this boy…no. He did not belong in this state. He was born of privilege, of his parent’s good genes and his parent’s even better money, schooled at the finest of universities with no trouble having decent grades. A dark and cruel streak had been his only real flaw, and to Bevans and his father it was not something to be concerned about at all, for they both shared similar traits. 

Feeling more emotion than he had ever felt for the child of his employer, he gently took the soiled blanket away and brushed a meaty hand against the young man’s forehead. It was neither freezing or feverish , which was a good sign, but that was not the reason Bevans had done it. An unfamiliar sense of sympathy struck him hard in the chest; this beautiful young man, with such promise, driven to destroy himself in the name of god-knew-what. 

“Easy, easy,” murmured Calderon, and Bevans stepped back.

The faithful butler felt sure that Julian would survive, since it was Calderon assuring him so, but he would be bedridden for some time. Carefully, almost tenderly, the family doctor removed the syringe, undid the belt, and held a firm thumb over the puncture to stop it flowing. Bevans looked on, locking everything in his viselike memory so that he could relay it to his employer. After Calderon was satisfied that that particular trouble was done, he staked to the bathroom and gathered a plethora of gauze from the bathroom cupboard, and proceed to gently but firmly wrap the boy’s mangled arm to protect it. He had seen raw cuts of beef at the butcher’s that looked healthier than this wound. Bevans nodded to the man, wet some of the gauze with hydrogen peroxide, and began to clean the blood from the boy’s torso. Julian squirmed and tried to thrash as the chemical bubbled and fizzed on his raw wounds, but before Bevans could stop himself he began to utter words of comfort, placing gentle hands on the boy to carefully restrain him.

“Hush, boy,” he murmured. “This is helping. Don’t struggle. Just...bloody hell. Just lie still, Master Julian. You…You’re okay. You’re alive; you’re going to survive.”

The boy moaned weakly, whether from the pain or the assurance that he would survive, Bevans could not be sure. His thoughts stumbling, he heard himself blurt out, “I’ve got you, lad. You’re okay. You’re fine. You will be okay.”

He had been looking down with embarrassment, but when he looked to the boy’s face again he could see tears streaming down. Julian made no sound, did not sob or hitch his breath, but his eyes leaked like rivers, pooling and soaking into the red-tinged pillow beneath his head.

“Bevans,” he managed to whisper, his voice a ghost amidst the sound of the radio. “Bevans…I wanna die. Please. Please.”

“It won’t happen, boy,” Bevans said sternly. “You’re born of good blood. You’re smart, like your parents. You’re powerful, even if you don’t realize it yet. You have a great legacy to inherit. You…” he trailed off for a second, throat working in a way he had never felt. “You’re going to be just fine. You’ll make them proud.”

Julian turned his face away from Bevans and said nothing for the remainder of the time they spent together.

***

 

The doctor treated Julian with sutures, antibiotics, and morphine. As he did so, the staff changed out the bloody bedding for fresh, clean sheets and blankets; soft, jersey ones to avoid chafing or catching. When he seemed settled, Bevans rejoined his employer in his study.

“Sir, I have news,” he murmured, noticing how close to passing out Shep was in his chair.

“’S- Shep,” he muttered, almost dropping his glass.

“Of course, Shep. Your son will be all right, everything has been tidied. He is in a fresh bed. He’s been properly seen after. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Shepard let out a bark of laughter than had to have hurt his throat. “Isn’t that nice. We’ll see, until next time.”

Bevans approached him carefully. “Have some water, sir, please. You need to take care of yourself. There are affairs that must be settled with the estate, as usual.”

“Usual,” murmured Shepard, half to himself. “God, I wish I knew what that word meant anymore.”

He began to weep into his glass of scotch, and Bevans could do nothing but stand by, awaiting orders. His chest hurt.


	9. A New Plan

After a period of abject emotional misery and confusion, Shepard Lambrick, top-shelf scotch invariably in hand, had become so eager to abandon reality that one day he drank himself to complete disabandon and ceremoniously raided his son’s illicit stash of…, _fun_ …chemicals in an attempt to escape his helpless misery. Julian was sprawled upon his gigantic bed, a blanket draped loosely over him by some attendant. He had been tranquilized to the point of dubious semi-consciousness, his eyes never leaving the TV screen; definitely not a risk of fighting back. He was certainly not at risk of finding suspicion with the careful shuffling of a dresser drawer somewhere in a room he probably wasn’t aware existed. Shep had pocketed the drugs and strayed to his son’s bedside, feeling a rare moment of tenderness for another, younger…creature…that was the direct, physical result of the love between Shepard and his late wife. Shep took his son’s long, slender hand and simply held it for awhile, sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing quietly. After a moment something pained him and he moved the hand over his cheek, closed his eyes against the warmth of the blood of Shepard and his lover combined; felt the warm blood rushing, the pulse point on Julian’s wrist, indicative of the human, beating heart that existed as a legacy of his own. He—and she—had created this one human being, together. He examined the pale skin, the long, tapered fingers, like an accomplished pianist’s. Her hands; her same smooth, pale skin. His throat tightened for a moment and he tried to fight against it, not being accustomed to such emotion when his life was a semblance of normalcy.

Most of the time these days, Shepard could only despise Julian and the trouble he caused. He complained about him, sought advice about him, raved about him, drank as a result of everything…But on the long nights when he refused to quit drinking even after midnight, alone in his study as always, he would sometimes get a niggling thought that perhaps his son’s personality was only a product of his own: elegant, polite, refined, intelligent, but…with a large, demanding pathologic streak of some sort. A violent streak, a cruel streak, a mean streak; perhaps all three. And something else; the urge to destroy. At first the urge had been to destroy other things, but it seemed, now that his mother was gone, that urge to destroy had shifted to himself. Shep was a philanthropist and knew enough about genetic inheritance. But the guilt that overcame him when he thought of the logic behind it was simply unbearable and needed to be rid of immediately, lest he simply collapse on the rug and perish from anguish. He was agog at his own capacity for guilt; something he had never had a problem with before.

But times like these, the rare times that he physically wanted to lay eyes on his son, a different feeling came over him. He sat on the side of the young man’s bed, held his hand and revered it as though it were something so precious he might lose it at any time and must fight, MUST FIGHT for it. He couldn’t be bothered the brush away the small drops of moisture that clung to his eyelashes. When this did happen, he would at that point take a last glance at his son’s blank face, his eyes—his mother’s eyes--lost somewhere in some dimension that was more desolate and unknown than the outward edges of the universe. Shepard laid his son’s hand back down on the mattress, still lightly holding it, and looked over to get a final glimpse of his son’s face before he left for his own adventure. 

Julian was staring right back at him, head flopped over to Shep’s side, but eyes unmistakably focused on his father. At first the elder Lambrick started and went into a kind of mental panic, not knowing what to expect, and began going over escape plans in his head. But…nothing happened. Nothing. Julian just stared back at him, emotionless…until his eyes widened suddenly and his father squeezed the hand he was holding in alarm; a reflex. 

It was almost like flipping a switch. Julian’s eyes brightened, lips parted slightly, and rapidly blinked his dilated eyes at Shep. His expression morphed into one of confusion and irritation; _c’mon, what the FUCK are you doing,Dad?! Holding my hand? Seriously?_

Classic Julian. Spirited, lively Julian, amusingly contrary Julian; _passionate_ Julian.

It was then that Shep made his decision. He retreated into his study for a three-day bender; thinking, always thinking, planning. Never a typical recreational drug user, he had almost always been a man of moderate amounts of alcohol and little else. He felt what his son must have felt, and battled through it while enjoying it to the very last bit, but he knew it was not something that he would do on any sort of regular basis. He could see how one might go mad.

 

This strange hiatus from the norm, though not something Shep would be repeating any time soon, did have one positive element: it inspired a seething cloud of rational thought that left Shep not only with a plan, but also feeling himself for the first time in several weeks. Eventually, he got it all down on paper: he would hire a team of experts. Hopefully they may help, but at the very least, they would provide entertainment for the aging billionaire and his damaged son. There might, Shep thought, even be a game of some sort. A glorious one. One that might unite him with his odd son forever. The only thing that might happen was that he would underestimate them, and they would help Julian, come hell or high water. 

So he assembled them, each one whose resume was spectacular and vowed only hope for his lost family. But Shep knew better. He knew the fragility of these people, from the get-go. They had never met a family like the Lambricks, and most certainly had never met an entity like Julian. It would be a sport. A greatly engaging one. And he knew it was the best that could be hoped for.

“Might I inquire, what have been the…complications… for him in dealing with possibly baser, and likely higher, cognitive functions? What are your son’s challenges every day? Can he be unsupervised? Can he work? Can he attend University?” The young man with the classy business card, flanked by his “team mates”, was eager to diagnose and to identify. It was obvious that he wanted a fairly simple answer; something he could take to his superiors and get an accolade for.

Shepard laughed until he thought he must look like an overripe tomato. “Oh, no,” he chuckled, “you’re mistaken. There are no ‘cognitive challenges’.” He brought himself under control slowly, sheer amusement paired with scorn like a steak paired with a complimentary wine; a good feeling for Shep; a normal feeling. Giving Julian access to these people would probably be like throwing children into a lion’s cage, which made him chuckle more despite the fact that he wanted them to help. At last he cleared his throat and spoke normally again, his tone serious. “Contrary to your theory, the boy is bright beyond belief. He just likes to keep the fact concealed most of the time so he’s underestimated when he’s, well… planning something. Every quarter of the school year in which Julian participates brings him the highest grades and very notable academic achievement.”

He knew what they were thinking: that the university was Lambrick funded and Julian would have to be comatose for them not to make a fanfare of any little effort he undertook, but that was—surprisingly--not the case at all. Julian earned his own way through, and yes, a small part of it may have been because he knew how to convince professors to do as he wanted, but if it was the case at all, the occasions would be rare. His name carried weight, but Julian (surprisingly) did not bring its clout into being often either.

Their meeting concluded with an agreement to administer treatment, and the promise that tests would begin the very next day. Everything was set. If they couldn’t help Julian, which Shep was sure they couldn’t, then they would at least meet an entertaining end. Julian’s odd behavior would never meet the outside world.


	10. Questions and Reactions

As soon as Shepard had met with the “professionals” that would be taking on his son’s case, he ordered the family physician to lower Julian’s thorazine to the point that he was merely lethargic, not near-comatose. He felt a little nervous of what Julian might do if given the right motivation with less medication, but he had to be able to interact with the psychologists. Dr. Calderon assured him that he would feel listless enough not to want to get up, much less accomplish a plan (whatever that would be). Shep took the advice and stood on his order; Bevans, who administered every injection, complied. 

After a few days of tapering off, Julian was propped up in bed, scowling at the television and listlessly jabbing at his iPhone. He was obviously sleepy and rather dimmed, but his contrary personality showed through a bit more like the old times. Shep went to visit him on the fourth day.

He entered his son’s chambers alone, without fanfare; a simple knock and then he opened the door and strode in. Julian slowly turned to stare at him, his expression unreadable.

“Hello, Julian,” Shep said evenly. “I hope you’re feeling better. You’ve been healing well.”

Julian grunted and looked away to the TV screen, where some random animated sitcom aired.

Shep cleared his throat. “Ahem, well…I thought you should know that tomorrow you’re going to talk to some people.”

Julian turned to his father again and raised a brow. _Am I?_

Shepard nodded. “They’re…specialists. They want to help you. They want you to feel better, and so do I. But you have to talk to them as much as you can. Answer their questions truthfully. Understand?”

Julian stared at him, lids lowered in fatigue or incredulity; it was hard to tell which. Perhaps both.

“You will,” Shep nodded, “because if you do, we can start taking you off some of these meds. And perhaps we’ll have a social event again; one for both of us to enjoy.”

The younger Lambrick tilted his head just so, considering. Finally he huffed and slouched lower on his pillows. “Whatever, Dad. Do what you’re going to do. I can’t stop you, anyways…” 

Shep smiled. “That’s my boy. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.” He turned for the door, completely missing the sight of his son rolling his eyes dramatically behind his back.

 

* * *

 

The young man that had spoken to Shepard earlier was named Issac. He returned on the day appointed, along with two female and a male colleague. To Shep they seemed a bit wet behind the ears, but they had their degrees to prove that they might be a match for Julian. Probably not, for which Shep smiled to himself, but they might be able to help the more—inconvenient—aspects of Julian’s psychosis. Either salvation or voyeuristic pleasure (or, gloriously, both) lay at hand. Shep was excited, like he had been when he held his first dinner party game. 

He arranged quarters for them, for their work would be full-time, likely. The conditions downstairs were spacious, luxurious, and certainly something that would appeal to graduates who had just exited dorm life. They had dropped off their bags with many thanks, impressed with the staff that would wait on them, which they were unused to, of course. They were not Lambricks.

In the foyer, each person had a clipboard and stood attentive and ready for this new job. Shepard led them upstairs. “His room is up here,” he said. “We should be quiet when we go in so he’s not startled.”

“Understood,” said Issac, seemingly the spokesperson for the group. “We will be quiet, of course. The patient needs no undue distress.”

Shepard desperately tried to stifle his laugh. _The patient._ Really.

When Shep swung the door inward after a brief knock, he entered first and saw his son seemingly asleep on his bed, the TV constantly blaring. The others followed, somber and silent as though they were at a wake. It was almost hilarious, and Shepard was aware that he had been stifling laughter since the psychologists/psychiatrists had arrived. He quickly located the remote control on a nightstand and muted the blaring program.

“Julian,” Shep said lowly. “Julian, wake up. These people are here to talk to you. Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?” Of course they hadn’t exactly talked about it; he had asked, bribed, and Julian had agreed.

Julian didn’t move, but mumbled, “Yeah,” and Shep saw Issac and his compatriots smile simultaneously, probably expecting something close to full compliance.

_Oh dear_ , he thought, _they’re not prepared at all_. 

“Julian,” he said, rather loudly. Slowly, his son turned his head to look at him. His eyes widened when he saw his father’s entourage. 

“What the f-“

“We discussed this, son. Do you remember?”

A brief moment of inward thought, and then Julian slowly nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Shep motioned, and everyone took a seat on the plush carpet, not quite trusting Julian’s enormous bed to be a safe place at this point. 

“Hello, Julian,” Issac said. “I’m Dr. Killian. This,” he motioned, “is Dr. Morgan, Dr. Patsmouth, and Doctor Ruber. We’re here to ask you some questions; see if we can’t help out a bit. I know things have been rough for you.”

Julian stared at them, but did little else except tug at the bandage on his arm and grunt with discomfort. “Dad, make them loosen this. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Listen to Dr. Killian, boy,” said Shepard evenly. “We’ll fix it later.”

Julian sighed and looked at Issac. “What do you want?”

“Just to help you,” Issac replied. He leaned forward, seemingly earnest. “We’re here to help you feel better, Mr. Lambr…uh…Jul…”

“Julian,” he snapped. “Just call me Julian. Formalities are for my father.”

Shepard had to will his face not to redden, but he remained quiet. 

“Very well,” said Issac, smiling gently. “Julian, then. Tell me, Julian: how are you feeling today? Right now, in this moment?”

Julian stared at him, eyes intense. “How old’re you?”

Issac had the decency not to flush. “I am thirty-one. Most of my compatriots are a bit older,” he gestured to the others, “But Dr. Ruber is a couple years younger.” He gestured to the female psychologist, who seemed a bit less nervous than the others, and Julian’s eyes lingered on her for a moment before roving over the faces of the other doctors. A few of them were watching Julian like a zookeeper watches a tiger during feeding time. Fascinated, a little nervous, perhaps even a bit afraid. Julian’s reputation had certainly preceded him.

The younger Lambrick nodded slightly, seemingly satisfied that none of these people were anywhere near his age (well, besides Dr. Ruber). Shepard thought that his son’s pride would have been wounded if he saw them as so close to his age, and the game would have never worked from the get-go.

“Just to hear your side of the story, what’s been a problem for you,” said Issac, hands up in supplication. “We’re not here to do you any harm. We just want to help. Can we ask you some questions?”

Julian looked to Shepard, who nodded sagely. He sighed, as though enormously put-out. “Fine, ask away, I guess.”

Issac smiled. “Well, for starters, how do you feel today?” He made a mental note of having to repeat the question; the young man did seem quite standoffish. Perhaps a coping mechanism for feelings of helplessness? He jotted it down in his file and Julian eyed him, curious and defensive.

“What’re you writing?”

“Just notes,” said Issac. “So I don’t forget things. Do you forget things, Julian? I mean, on a regular basis. Stuff that you wouldn’t consider normal for yourself when you are feeling good.”

“…I guess there’s some things I’d rather not remember,” Julian replied, and he looked his father in the eye as he said it. Finally, he looked back at Dr. Killian. “But otherwise, no. I do not.”

Issac nodded, but he suspected that Julian might be deceiving him. Why did he glance so pointedly at his father? This was becoming deeper…

“So,” Issac said, “where do you feel you’re at today? Just today, right now: how do you feel?”

“Actually, Doctor Killian, I want a _fucking cigarette_. Somebody gimme one.”

Shep located a pack on the nightstand and tossed it to his son, who caught it and produced a lighter from god-knows-where. He lit it, dragged deeply, and then smiled. “Guess that’s better.”

“You’re feeling better, then?” Dr. Morgan asked. He was an older man, bespectacled and even-tempered. “That’s good to know, Julian. May I ask, what are you feeling better from? Why were you feeling bad before?”

The younger Lambrick snorted and gestured around him. “What do you think, huh? All these shots, this depressing room, you depressing people.” He grinned, contrary as ever, and took another drag. “Calming, smokes. Yup.”

“That’s okay, Julian,” eased Issac. “That’s cool. But can we ask you some more questions? All we want, all you father wants, is for you to feel better.”

Julian froze for a moment, then briefly tilted his head towards the young doctor. “My father wants me to _feel better_? Are you fucking serious?” He began to laugh, loudly and definitely unhinged, and Shepard found himself grimacing.

“Yes, boy,” he ground out. “That is what I want.”

“And Mr. Worthington?” Julian countered. “Please, Dad, enlighten me: how was Mr. Worthington supposed to help me feel better?!”

“ _I told you I was sorry for that_ ," Shep hissed. "He was unpredictable in the end. It was my mistake. Julian, I’m just a man. I make mistakes. You have to learn to forg-“

“ _Fuck you_!” Julian hissed. “I’ll forgive _shit_!”

The doctors were glancing around at each other, confused. Bevans, who had stood attendant throughout the whole thing, began readying a syringe. Julian looked back at the doctors, crazed.

“You wanna know what he _did_?! _Huh_?!,” he nearly screamed. “You wanna know what _I_ did because of what _he_ did?!?! I dare you to analyze that!!”

Shepard quickly nodded at Bevans, who swiftly stepped forward and overtook Julian, his readied syringe plunging deeply into the young man’s already bruised hip. Julian struggled, panting, but Bevans’ arms were like steel bands, and held him fast until he lolled to the side and fell asleep.

None of the doctors could get a word in edgewise, much less protest.

“I’m sorry, my friends,” said Shep, “but I’m afraid we must cease questioning for now. Perhaps he will feel a bit more compliant tomorrow.”

Issac was underwhelmed (as were the others), but he eventually abated and agreed, as did they. The boy was drugged now, after all. He and his compatriots retired to their quarters, but Issac could not forget what had transpired between father and son. 

What had Shepard done to his son to make him so angry? What was going on here, exactly?

**Author's Note:**

> So far there are 11 chapters. If this story is well-received, I will post more. Do enjoy!
> 
> -Spike


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